


Oxygen? Who Gives a Crap About Oxygen?

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breathplay, Bulges and Nooks, Choking, Consensual Kink, M/M, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP: Cronus consensually chokes the ever-living shit out of Eridan. They both get off. The end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxygen? Who Gives a Crap About Oxygen?

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to me [2 days late]

If there’s anything Eridan is, without a doubt, it’s needy and wanting; he hides it under a thin veneer of arrogant control but it’s simple enough to unravel him- you would know, you've become rather good at it these past few sweeps. It’s like tugging a spool of thread; one quick pull and the whole thing falls apart, and one quick kiss, quick touch, quick caress, and he falls to your feet, too proud to beg, too desperate to resist. You’ve been mean, though- you’ve been teasing him for days, lingering touches and meaningful gazes and fingertips stroking along his fins and chest… He’d snapped about three hours ago, but you’d just kept going.

 

And now he’s on you like white on rice, plastered against you and still too proud to beg, still too good to grovel, but shaking with the sort of desperate eagerness you've become intimately familiar with; you may be many things, but you are not cruel enough to torture him any longer [though honestly now it’s more for your own benefit than his].

 

"You're already wet, aren't you," you murmur, and he bubbles out an affirmative sound he'd never admit to calling a whimper, pulling you in for a kiss. It's fast, sloppy, filled with more spit and tongue than you usually prefer, but he's rutting against the thigh you've slipped between his legs and he's already half out of his mind so you deal. You do more than deal- you use your weight to pin his small frame even further, leaning against him until his breath comes in little wheezy pants and his eyes roll back in his head. 

 

"You want it?"

 

Your name spills from his mouth, high and breathy, and he babbles gibberish into your ear as you thrust your leg up higher, grinding your thigh against the wet spot in his pants that marks the location of his dripping nook. 

 

"You sure? I dunno, chief, you don' seem too _enthusiastic_."

 

He claws at your shirt, whining and snarling around soft, bubbly ocean pleas for you to just _ get on with it Cro before I fuckin' deal with it myself _ -

 

You can barely hear him, with how raspy his voice has gone, but you acquiesce and pull away just long enough to toss your clothes to the side, making quick work of his as well while you're at it [despite how nice it is to imagine him touching himself, fucking his own nook with his fingers and writhing on your sheets-]. 

 

He’s already dripping for you, violet smeared over his thighs and staining the sheets underneath him with every desperate roll of his hips, and god, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. It takes all your self control not to throw yourself back onto him, to take him with little restraint; you content yourself with covering him with your body, making sure as much skin touches as possible, keeping him still with your weight and delighting in his harsh little intakes of breath. 

 

Despite how frantic you and he were both moving not moments before, despite how frantic you both are still, you take the time to enter him slowly, burying your face in the crook of his neck and muffling your moaning with his skin. He’s so wet and so used to taking you that you slide in with no trouble, but it feels almost too good regardless; you can hardly breathe, and all your concentration goes to keeping yourself still until he’s ready for you to  _ go _ . 

 

Thank god that it only takes a few moments for him to start tugging at your shoulders and not-begging with the soft, cracked tone he uses when he’s  _ really  _ gagging for it, because you have no clue how long you could have resisted the lure of his body. 

 

“How bad d’you want it, baby?” you say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the havoc his snarling and panting and writhing is wreaking on your body, “Tell me how bad you want it an’ I might give it t’ya.”

 

He ocean-babbles slurred phrases, too far gone already to remember any other language, and if that isn’t the hottest thing; like this, just like this, you can literally fuck everything but base noises and instinctive speech from his mind. When you thrash inside of him, he goes quiet, eyes wide, like he can’t believe this is happening, and he clutches your shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded. 

 

He mouths words, little things you’ve learned to read from his lips,  _ more _ and  _ fuck  _ and  _ Cro, Cro _ , but no sound comes out, no sound but your own loud whimpers and harsh barks of pleasure. He’s always so quiet, once everything really gets going, like he can’t focus on the pleasure and making noise at the same time so one has to go, and when you lean against him even further, pressing him flat with your weight, all you get is a soft little trill in response. 

 

You know what he likes, what you both like, and you know what he wants; with a harsh little sound and a thrash of your bulge,  you wrap one hand around his throat and squeeze. You know exactly how long to hold to maximize the pleasure but you let go short of the mark each time, counting seconds in your head and marking each one with a thrust or twist of your bulge. He bucks against you sharply, choked off sobs ripping themselves from his throat, face flushed a brilliant violet and getting brighter the longer you hold tight, and god, he's so beautiful like this. The trust he puts in you, the fact that he literally lets you take the air from his lungs in order to make him feel good, that he trusts you with this, it's monumental. Astounding.

 

30 seconds, and you let go. He gasps in once, twice, and then you clench your hand again, cutting off vital oxygen. 

 

In water, this would be futile, but his secondary respiratory system can't absorb enough oxygen from ambient water vapor to help him breathe. He is entirely dependent on you, body lax except the desperate, mindless jerking of his hips, eyes rolled back in his head, a thin trail of spittle dribbling from his lips; he doesn't struggle. 

 

20 seconds, and you let go. He manages four breaths before you cut him off again.

 

Sometimes, when you're feeling mean, you make him keep track of the seconds, stopping  completely if he loses count, but today you don’t think you're patient enough for such games, and you don’t think he's going to last long enough to play with you. It’s been a while, and you’re both already so close, _too_ close; it’s going to end far too soon for your liking but what can you do? Resisting him just… isn’t an option. Not like this.

 

20 seconds again, then you let go.

 

You grind against him, slow and steady as he twitches and gulps in air, head thrown back, neck bared and already showing signs of bruising. He’s submitted entirely to your will, all yours, docile and passive and fuck; you love wrecking him like this. You love reducing him to such a base, tame state, love that he trusts you to take everything he is, everything he’s built himself up to be, and shatter it into a million pieces. You love that he’s so willing to give himself over to you in all forms, until you literally hold his life in your hands, and you love that you have total and complete control over his entire existence. 

 

You love that you’re the only one to ever see him like this; anyone else would end up ripped to shreds, but not you. He  _ gives in _ to you, in a way you know his personality, his very being, would never let him to do anyone else, but you’re not just anyone else, are you? No, you’re everything to him, his life and breath, and his arrogance falters and dies a strangled death in him as you choke the air from his lungs, his body and mind so perfectly, beautifully _willing_. 

 

You clench your hand, once again cutting off his oxygen supply, and his hips stutter, rocking up against you desperately. You can tell he’s close, so close but not quite there yet, and you lean down and whisper, “I’m not letting go ’till you come.”

 

You hear the faintest, strangled little noise, and you pull another from his lips when you thrust hard, and again, driving into him quick and deep. He gives a full body shudder at 20 seconds, arches into you at 30, and goes completely limp at 40, tongue lolling a bit through kiss swollen lips.

 

“C’mon Eri,” you groan, licking at his earfin, snarling when he bucks against you reflexively, “Come on, baby, come for me, can’t breathe till you come for me, wanna see you, _come on_ …” 

 

He jerks, shivers, and silently spills his material, body twitching and quivering around you, against you. As promised, you release him and he convulses almost violently, gasping and clutching at you, desperately searching for something to ground him as he writhes, chest heaving. His nook flutters and clenches around your bulge and the sensation sends you crashing over the edge after him, and within three thrusts you’re done in, moaning and whimpering through your own orgasm. 

 

He’s dazed, out of it, breath coming in wheezy little pants, but when you kiss his cheek his pretty violet lips twitch up in a smile, soft and sated. 

 

“'S good?”

 

“Y-yeah,” he responds, voice wrecked and ruined, and kisses you back, rubbing his face along your cheek and reaching up to wrap his arms around your shoulders. He’s still trembling and weak, but he makes his desire clear when he tugs you down on top of him, sighing when you cover his little frame with your body. 

 

“Stay,” he says, and when you make noise about maybe cleaning up, he trills all sad and looks up at you with those stupid, irresistible eyes of his and tells you to worry about it later. None of your prompting will get him to move, or even let go of you at this point, so you settle back on the bed with a grumble about gross, sticky sheets and cradle his shaking body to your chest, gently rubbing your thumb along the prominent bruising on his throat. 

 

He falls asleep in your arms with a doofy little grin on his face, nuzzling your shoulder in the most adorable manner; after kicking some of the more saturated blankets away, you allow yourself to follow after, his almost ridiculously loud purring lulling you into unconsciousness. 


End file.
